Into the Night
by The Wavesinger
Summary: Fëanor's death on the slopes of Ered Wethrin.


**Warning!**This sucks. Immensely. Cause: lack of inspiration. Damages to your own muse will not be paid for. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.

Also, please do not follow most of the advice that Fëanor has given to his sons. Much of it is unsound, and it may hurt your social standing grievously. I will _not_ take responsibility for that.

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Since this story is set before the Noldor started to use Sindarin, I used their Quenya names. So (just in case you didn't know) Fëanáro is Fëanor, Nelyafinwë is Maedhros, Kanafinwë is Maglor, Turkafinwë is Celegorm, Curufinwë is Curufin, Morifinwë is Caranthir, Pityafinwë is Amrod, Telufinwë is Amras, Arakáno is Fingolfin (his mother-name—see HoME XII, _The Shibboleth of Fëanor_), Findekáno is Fingon, and Ingoldo is Finarfin. (It was hard to choose between mother-names and father names, since I figured that Fëanor would hate both, but in the end mother-names won)

Quenya wordlist

Atar—father

Atarinya—my father

Atarinya tye-meláne—I love thee, my father*

Fëa—spirit

Hröa—body

Yonya/yondonyar—my son

Yondonyar**—my sons

Disclaimer—Tolkien owns what Tolkien owns. Dylan Thomas owns what Dylan Thomas owns. Please do not haunt me from your grave for murdering your work, Professor Tolkien, and please do not haunt me from your grave, Mr. Thomas, for quoting brief snatches of your poems that most likely distort their meanings. Thank you. (But Prof. Tolkien can't haunt me. Why? He left us such a lot of information on the personalities of most characters. We have to make absolutely nothing up, and as long as we stick to not adding warrior-princesses of Mirkwood or random elf-mortal marriages to our stories, we should do fine. [Note the sarcasm])

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_And looking out from the slopes of Ered Wethrin with his last sight he beheld the far off peaks of Thangorodrim, mightiest of the towers of Middle-earth, and knew with the foreknowledge of death that no power of the Noldor would ever overthrow them; but he cursed the name of Morgoth thrice, and laid it upon his sons to hold to their oath, and to avenge their father. Then he died; but he had neither burial nor tomb, for so fiery was his spirit that as it sped his body fell to ash, and was borne away like smoke; and his likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos. Thus ended the mightiest of the Noldor, of whose deeds came both their greatest renown and their most grievous woe._

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, _Of the Return of the Noldor_

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_And you, my father, there on the sad height,_

_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

—Dylan Thomas, _Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night _from a collection of the same name.

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The words could be heard for many miles, echoing through the peaks and valleys of Ered Wethrin, spoken as they were clearly and loudly, by a beautiful, ringing voice filled with rage and desire for vengeance, which yet sounded like its owner was near death, as he indeed was, being smitten by the fell creatures of Melkor.

"I curse you, Melkor whom I call Moricotto***, brother of the Valar. I curse your name, and I curse your deeds. May your spirit be tormented ever and your heart never rest!" The person who spoke appeared to be wounded, blood seeping from his stomach****.

The seven people on the slope nearest to Thangorodrim wore the badge of the House of Fëanor. All appeared weary and bloodstained, but the garments of the one who stood in the middle of the ring were stained with blood, clinging especially to his stomach****, where, as has been said before, he had been wounded by Melkor's army.

"It will ever be so, atar. He is cursed forever by his act of stealing what is rightfully ours." Curufinwë, as he replied to his father's words, looked at the Noldo, whose eyes flamed with anger, though his frail body could hardly stand. A surge of derision for the man***** who professed to lead their House, weak though he was, coursed through his veins.

He hid his derision behind a mask of grief.

"Indeed," Fëanáro said, pride and anger evident in his voice, "Indeed."

He looked at his sons, six in all******, standing as dark shadows against the starlit sky, and, to Curufinwë, he appeared more regal and kingly than he ever had before. Here, indeed was a scion of the House of Finwë, who would bow to no-one and fight to the death for love of his people, Curufinwë thought, knowing that, by praising his father, he was, by extension, praising himself, for he was, of Fëanor's seven sons, the most like him in mind or body…or so people said.

"_Yondonyar_…I have much to say to you." The soft yet powerful voice brought Curufinwë out of his rather self-glorifying thoughts.

"Then say it,_ atar_," he replied, the only one to do so, if only in mocking tone. The others were silent, but they appeared troubled.

Fëanáro sighed. "Even if we had many Years of the Trees to speak, even then I could not tell all I wish to say, for foresight of death has come upon me, and I can see much of your fëa and your path. But now I will say what is most important only." He paused for a moment, and his eyes pierced the fëa******* of each of his sons, burning into them and searching their deepest thoughts, their hopes, fears, regrets, and ambitions, leaving them naked before his flame, wishing they could curl up in a ball to hide or run to some deep, dark place of the earth, never to return.

At last, he withdrew his gaze, and all sighed in relief.

"My sons, first I will say: beware of Moricotto***. He is evil and fallen, but he is yet mighty among his brethren and can do many things of which they only dream. Therefore victory over him cannot be achieved through strength of arms and valor. It is nigh on impossible. And yet you must try, or all of Arda will fall to Darkness and the glory of our House will dim. And we will not regain what is rightfully ours, what that thief has stolen. He may pervert you, torture you, destroy you, put you to torment. And yet, mark my words: he will not be able to bring Arda under his dominion while the House of Fëanáro yet lives. And though all may be darkness, a bright star shall bring to you unexpected hope.

"Take not my words lightly, what I have said now and what I will soon say, for, as I have said, I speak with foresight that has come of death, and I would not that you do not uphold the honor of our House because you did not listen, or understand. And now I will say to each of you what must be said.

"Turkafinwë, _yondonya_, to you I say only this. Be wary of your desire, for it will lead you to your greatest humiliation. Do not rely overmuch on strength only, and do not take loyalty for granted, as you have been doing, for it will bring about your downfall. And sometimes, strength will bring you ruin, for brute force cannot substitute for wisdom and subtlety."

Turkafinwë appeared chastened, bowing his head.

Fëanáro's gaze drifted to Telufinwë, who stood to a side, staring at his father in stony silence.

"Be thankful of your brothers' protection, for though now you chafe under it, you we be glad for it later. Do not dwell on that which you cannot change, and put the past behind you. Be comforted that it was Pityafinwë's cowardliness that killed him, and not a weakness of your own******, and take pride in the death of one who, if he had lived, would have been a great disgrace to us all. Those who desert their father are unworthy of the name of the House of Fëanaro."

Telufinwë's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Next to him Nelyafinwë clenched his fists. But Curufinwë nodded, agreeing with his father.

"Morifinwë—beware of harsh words, for they will turn many against out cause. In seeking to hasten the fulfillment of your hopes by harsh words, you will find that, eventually, many will desert our cause because you could not state your intentions in less…insulting words."

"But _atar_! People who are not willing to listen to reason are scum and should be treated as such!" Morifinwë protested.

Fëanáro frowned. "Listen, my son, to your words! Do they not seem to you harsh? Would you follow one who uttered such words? If you wish to beguile fools, do so with honey, not whips. Nay," as Morifinwë began to speak, Fëanáro put up a hand to forestall him, "Do not argue with me. I am done."

Morifinwë scowled darkly at his father.

"Curufinwë." Fëanáro's expression softened. "Curufinwë, _yonya_, you are my middle son, and my favorite. I love you more than any other, and wish for no harm to come to you. But your future is clouded from me. So all I will say is that you should always seek for perfection, and when you have achieved it, never let the object of your making go. Keep it with you, for you will soon find that you may not be parted from it for long." Fëanáro bent his son's head gently, and placed a kiss among the hair. "My blessings go with you in whatever deeds you accomplish, which shall doubtless be great and sung about in ages to come."

Curufinwë placed a hand on his father's arm. "Thank you,_ atar_. Your blessing and advice will no doubt help me in future times."

"Ah, but I am not done." Fëanáro paused for a moment, before going on: "Beware of treachery inside your own family, for the one closest to you will renounce you ere the end, so do not love the bonds of flesh and kin overmuch, lest they lead to your bereavement, as they did mine. Oh yes, I know that you lost your wife, but that is not the bereavement I talk of—the betrayal of kin by kin. I would not have you feel the loss that I did when Ner—when your—when the woman I once lo—when the commoner daughter of Mahtan left me and renounced my name."

Curufinwë glared suspiciously at his brothers, wondering which of them would, in the future, betray him. It did not occur to him that his own son might, for he was yet barley past his majority, and similar in mind and body to Fëanáro, even as he was.

"I say this not to turn you against your brothers," Fëanáro continued, in a softer voice, "but I would not see you hurt. I love you, my son, and you are more precious to me than anything else."

Curufinwë bowed his head, but, seeing out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a strange expression of pain and anger on Nelyafinwë's face, he smiled.

Fëanáro turned to his two remaining sons, looking, for the moment, at Kanafinwë. "And now I speak to you, Kanafinwë, poet of the family. Always it has seemed to me that you excel only in song and your smithcraft is weak. However that may be, you are talented. Work on your song, yes, but give my craft a greater place, for it is greater than yours. Grieve not for the wife you have left behind, for your bond is still there, and you can yet exchange thoughts and feelings with her******** And do not rebel against your brothers, however important the reason seems, to you at least, for that will prevent you from fulfilling your oath. And the Oath is more important than anything else, my son, and to it you must give your life if the need appears."

Kanafinwë sighed, and nodded submissively.

"And Nelyafinwë—I speak to you last who is the oldest of my sons." Fëanáro's countenance darkened as he looked at the person in question. "When you were born, you cannot imagine how greatly I rejoiced. You were to be my heir and the only true grandson of Finwë (though that has now been proven wrong, _yondonyar_). You were to become great amongst the Noldor, and turn your back on the bastard sons********* of that Vanyar servant of the Valar.

"And yet you have proved the least faithful of my sons to our cause. You have befriended Findekáno son of my thrice-cursed half-brother Arakáno. And you wished to save him, and called him 'The Valiant'! Do you have no sense of shame? No son of Arakáno—or Ingoldo, for that matter—is 'valiant'. Usurpers they are of my father's love, they and their thrice-cursed sons, borne to him by another woman and not the wife he had pledged himself to under Ilúvatar, seeking to turn him away from me, and it shames me that you should befriend one of that evil kind and seek to save him from whatever fate awaits those who are mere baggage on the road.

"But I digress. As it may be, though you associated with Findekáno, you still are my eldest son. You will inherit the High Kingship of the Noldor when I pass, as I shall soon. And when that time comes, do not listen overmuch to your heart when it tells you to befriend any who is not of like mind to us. Rule as I have taught you, seeking the advice of none save at times your brothers in blood, and using your mind and the loyalty to your father, and you shall gain, though maybe not love, the respect and fear of our people. You have ever been a disappointment to me. Let it be not so in the future."

Nelyafinwë's face was in the shadows as he listened to his father, so none could tell what he felt, but after the speech—the longest yet—had finished, he stepped forward into the light. His face is expressionless, a mask. "_Atarinya_, I have tried to respect you and follow your ways. Forgive me if I have erred. I did not mean to hurt you. For, my father, I love you. _Atarinya tye-meláne_. "

Curufinwë laughed silently. _Think you, brother, that words will have any effect on my father?_ I_ am his heir, not you, and if he could bestow upon _me_ his kingship he would. The only reason you have not been dispossessed is that more than half the followers our House love you, and would see you as king. But brother, one day, _I_ shall rule! For that is my father's will. And no matter how much my people love you, you cannot change that!_

Fëanáro waved his hand impatiently, brushing Nelyafinwë's words aside like so many dead flies********** . "Be that may, _my son_, you have failed me while I yet live. Do not do so when I have died. But now it matters not to me, for our House will either way win renown and glory." He paused to take a deep breath, appearing wearier than he ever had before. "_Yondonyar_, I will soon pass from this life, but the Oath is as of yet it is unfulfilled. Therefore I lay it upon you to fulfill what you, too, swore and to avenge your father. This you must do to uphold the honor of our house and show the Valar that the small and brave can do greater deeds than the mighty and cowardly. Will you do so?"

"We will, _atar_!" Curufinwë cried. The others echoed his cries. "We will!"

Fëanáro smiled and began to say something, but a sudden fit of coughing grabbed his body. He clutched his side where he had been wounded, and cried angrily to the wind: "I curse you, Melkor whom I call Moricotto***, brother of the Valar. I curse your name, and I curse your deeds. May your spirit be tormented ever and your heart never rest!"

"Twice you have cursed him," Curufinwë noted, "I assume you intend to do it thrice, as will be correct." If he became afraid when his father at last showed some pain as he had not for centuries (grief, yes, he had exhibited, but not pain, so much that his sons had thought that he was immune to it), though it must pale into insignificance when compared to the pain that was hidden, Curufinwë was sure, deep within Fëanáro's heart, he did not show it.

"I do,_ yondonya_. As you did many times, you have guessed my mind once again," Fëanáro laughed, and the sound echoed through the hills, but he appeared to be in great pain.

"Do not the _true_ sons of Finwë die as they have lived, spectacularly? Do they not resist death until the very end? It was so with _atar_, and it shall be so with me, as it will be with you if your time comes!" he said proudly, shaking off the pain, or looking as though he did, with one shake of his head, his eyes glittering, his fëa seeming to burn brighter than ever as he stood on the brink of death, still refusing to let the darkness swallow him.

Curufinwë smiled too, the mirthless curve of his mouth more fell than Fëanáro's gentle yet fiery laugh, and the two seemed more alike than ever. "And so it shall be."

Then Fëanáro seemed to shimmer strangely, distorting the air around him as a burning fire would, and he looked upon his sons for the last time while he was yet in this form. "My time is come, my sons. I bid you good-bye until your time on this earth is ended, as the time of all things end. Fare thee well, and may you fulfill the Oath and regain the Silmarils." He paused, seeming to struggle to draw breath. And then he opened his mouth, and cried out for the third and last time: "I curse you, Melkor whom I call Moricotto***, brother of the Valar. I curse your name, and I curse your deeds. May your spirit be tormented ever and your heart never rest!"

And his sons stared at him, for he seemed to be a tall figure, framed against the starlit sky, light shining around him illuminating the mountainside, looking as if one of the Valar had come among them.

But Curufinwë laughed aloud, for had not the Valar forsaken them, craven as they were in their sorrow, refusing to pursue Moricotto despite the hurts he had done to their realm and people?

And Fëanáro became, once again, diminished, a frail, broken person on the verge of fleeing his hröa. For a moment, they thought that he had ceased to live as he stood in the darkness under the stars.

Then he stirred, and spoke these lines, his voice faltering yet still clear:

"_They shall have stars at elbow and foot;_

_Though shall go mad they shall be sane,_

_Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;_

_Though lovers be lost love shall not;_

_And death shall have no dominion. ***********_

Thus I say of the House of Finwë, and thus it shall be so until the world ends; for such is the fate of Arda Marred."

And, as the last sound was forced out of his mouth, his breath stopped.

So passed Fëanáro, brightest and mightiest of the Eldalië before or after the Years of the Trees. And so bright was his fëa that it burned his hröa as it sped it way to the Halls of Mandos, while his sons watched ashes of what he once inhabited float in the wind, scattering to the four directions, never to be found again.

And, as he watched the remains of his father flee to the ends of the earth, Curufinwë wondered whether Fëanáro had been glad when Finwë had been killed.

* * *

*HoME V, _The Lost Road_

**Yondonyar—_Yonya _or _Yondonya _is 'my son'. I added a 'r' to make the word plural. I am well aware that this is wrong Quenya—at least, it's not regular _Neo_-Quenya—but Tolkein always placed emphasis on the beautiful. All those who know the basic rules of Quenya grammar will realize what I mean.

***_Moricotto_ (mori 'dark' + cotto 'enemy') is Quenya for Morgoth. Also called Moringotto. (I used Moricotto instead of Moringotto because I found a way to separate the stems in the former. 'gotto' most likely means 'foe', but I'm not sure, so I prefer the former.)

****My own invention. Nowhere in the Silmarillion or HoME X, XI, and XII (I only use these volumes) are we told _where_ Fëanor was 'mortally wounded'. But since he didn't die immediately, I don't think it was a head or chest wound. Bleeding to death from smaller wounds isn't an option either—if you have enough wounds to bleed to death, you'd already be dead. People don't die of wounds to limbs, so that leaves the stomach. (Source—half my family are doctors. I should know.)

*****Here, 'man' is used to denote one of the male sex, not the human race.

******This version of the tale of the twins is from HoME XII, _The Shibboleth of Fëanor_. I can't explain the whole tale here, but, in short, the older of the twins was sick of Fëanor's deeds, and he was planning to sail back to Aman. But Fëanor burnt the ships, and accidentally killed him. I used this version because it felt right here, and because this is all Tolkien feels fit to tell us about Amrod and Amras' characterization. I can't write just pull their personalities out of thin air, since I'm no magician, can I? (Well, actually, I did do that. A lot. Because the dear old Professor left us with so little information about any of the sons of out favorite Spirit of Fire. Honestly, it's annoying when you're trying to write fanfiction.)

*******This is not wrong grammar. Each is singular. (Would you ever say 'Each woman had their lunch'? I thought not) It _would_ be wrong to use _fëar_, though, since _fëar_ is the plural of _fëa_.

********In HoME X, _Laws and Customs of the Eldar_, it does say that wife and husband join their fëar, but there is no mention of the bond being this deep. This was my own invention. *****Yes, you read it right. Bastard. As in illegitimate child. That's what it means, and that will always be its meaning. I don't want to explain etymology here, but, basically, it became an insult because, not so long ago, extramarital sex was looked down upon, and a child born of extramarital sex was, by extension, also looked slightly down upon, though not stigmatized to a great extent. But it was still considered a bad thing to be an illegitimate child, though it didn't influence day-to-day life much, and this issue was often dragged into arguments and fights, to unsettle or insult the opposite party. Gradually, it became more common to use it as a general insult. In case you wanted to know, I included all this etymological information because I doubt that the Eldalië of Aman used bad language, though I'm not exactly against it. (Heck, I swear like a sailor sometimes. And I have a _very_ colorful vocabulary.)

*********Wonderful comparison, no? ;)

***********Dylan Thomas, _And Death Shall Have No Dominion_,Twenty-Five Poems. No, I didn't write it. If I could write like that, I'd have fled FFn and found a publisher a long time ago. And even if I, one day, become good enough to publish, I will never have Mr. Thomas' genius. (Read his poems. They're absolutely amazing)

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**Important!**Please note that these views on Fëanor and his sons are not mine. They are Curufin's and Fëanor's respectively. I have a much more sympathetic (Or, in the case of Celegorm and Curufin, less sympathetic) view of them, although some of the opinions that Fëanor airs _are_ mine, carefully molded to fit Fëanor's Silmaril-minded and ahem, insane mindset.

Also, Curufin's sudden changes of opinion about his father is, I know, rather…strange. But I'm going to leave it to anyone who can bother with a story this bad to figure out why I wrote it that way.

Poem one is the sons of Fëanor's thoughts on their father's death. Poem two refers to the sons themselves, as well as the whole House of Finwë, of which all but three members (Idril, Galadriel, and Finarfin) snuffed it. (Figure it out. It's not that hard.)

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Yes. It sucks. Do. Not. Sue. Me.

And sorry about the 'Arda Marred' bit. I just couldn't resist the temptation. Also, sorry about the immense number of footnotes and A/Ns. This is my first Silmarillion fic (lame poems don't count), and I'm very, very nervous.

You know, all this drama happened in view of Thangorodrim, which doesn't make sense. At all. Morgoth should've asked Sauron to film the whole thing with that great big eye the movies are so fond of flaunting (Peter Jackson doesn't get the concept of Sauron's eye at all…but, on the bright side, Sauron can use it to film all of Middle Earth!) and shown it to his slaves—they get so little entertainment. I bet the Orcs were fighting for box seats! But Morgoth would've grabbed the best seat for himself, more's the pity…What about the poor Valar? They didn't get to see the show. And they're the ones who would've enjoyed it the most, what with knowing most of the fashion of the world because of the Music and everything.

Thank you for reading, and have nice day :)!


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